


white light coming up

by liluye (mouselini)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, PWP, Porn, implied alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 01:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8825692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouselini/pseuds/liluye
Summary: What he wants to say is, “I'm leaving for real, this time."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Little modern AU one-shot with dicks. I might start a related/chaptered background fic if I can get over how much I hate my own writing. Haven't proofread, ignore any incomplete paragraphs.
> 
> These characters were neighbors in high school, now they're 26 and fairly problematic. Fenris speaks Catalan. Happy holidays, here's them fucking on a couch.

Varric says “denial is a river in Egypt” often enough to automatically punctuate it with a flinch.

He also reminds everyone that certain brands of courage exist solely between drinks two and six, but he doesn't bother shying away from Isabela when she clocks him in the jaw that time. Affectionately coined “Purgatory Pluck,” he seals the sentiment wih a heavy thump of his thumb on the send key and finally waves off the text he'd spent over twenty minutes drafting.

Starting drink three himself, Hawke is hard pressed to disagree. The Hanged Man swims in its typical Friday night crowd of frat rejects and red-lipped paralegals. “Fortunate Son” by Creedence blares from a sound bar mounted between two flatscreen TVs; upon one Ronda Rousey connects her knee to the crotch of a small woman, upon the other roll the opening credits for Family Guy.

“Think she's gonna respond?” Isabela's question clips when the adjacent table rumbles beneath six bulking, undergraduate fists.

Varric holds her Malibu and Coke to the overhead light, searching for the line of water collecting along the top. “Who cares,” he yells. “What drink are you on?”

“Three!”

“Excellent. We're in the golden hour now, Rivs! Hawke?”

Draining his can, Hawke crushes it against the table and drags his sleeve across his mouth. “Gonna be four,” he coughs, “if you pass me that pitcher.”

“Fucking top of the world for another three rounds. Anders, what drink are you on?”

“What?”

They all shout in unison, “what drink are you on?”

Blonde hair spilling inelegantly, Anders collapses forward into his crossed arms and doesn't move again.

Hawke has always been an agreeable drunk, so when he remembers that Fenris is a better liar than him, he allows his laugh to taper off into a nod and shrugs, rooting his smile against the brim of a beer glass. A common thought, it tends to announce itself as a crinkled nose or vacant throb in the center of his chest. Sometimes it taunts him while he tips back a shot; he'd cough it away like his wince was meant for Varric's jeer and let Isabela pat his back like one would an infant, but he never argues when he's drunk, not even once.

Tonight the feeling arrives via text and Hawke senses its transmission before his pocket even vibrates. 

**Fenris (23:59)** Im so sorry

His eyes run over the words three times before he sets his phone on the table. Meeting Isabela's glass halfway in salute, Hawke decides that Varric is only partially right: one brand of courage keeps his smile intact, but his Purgatory Pluck falls too short to respond just yet.

 

\--

 

 **Hawke (01:17)** yeah what drnk ar eyou on

 

–

 

The walk to Hightown, typically filtered in blue, is dark tonight. Hawke lets himself into Fenris' apartment with the key he never bothered to remove from his key ring and overcompensates his drunken gait by attempting to reach the kitchen on his toes. Wood creaking beneath him, he knows exactly which floorboards worry the building most, which ones wake Fenris fastest.

 _If he's even here_ drowns at the bottom of the mug Hawke fills with tap water, and, bringing ceramic to his lips, he runs a finger down the snout of the calico cat watching him from the edge of the sink.

By the time Hawke turns around again, Fenris is scrutinizing him from the shadowed, single-bedroom doorway. His black jeans, ripped in one knee, serve as a reminder that he doesn't stay home at night anymore, but the unruliness of his hair suggests that he simply failed to take them off prior to passing out wine-drunk on the bathroom floor.

Hawke leans back against the sink and creates a rest for one arm with the other, balancing his elbow against the back of his wrist while lukewarm water filters through his teeth. Fenris looks thinner. Hawke can see the divot caving between his hipbones, and he lets out a derisive snort when Fenris tugs his t-shirt down like it'll hide the latest puncture in his belt. Still, at least he's standing. An improvement from the last time Hawke broke in and and entered and found him down against the fridge, soaked to his fucking skeleton in Stoli.

Fenris creeps into the sharp blue window light that splits the floor in two, wobbling with either exhaustion or grain residue—Hawke can't tell. The cat springs from the counter to greet him with a figure-eight around his legs before disappearing into the bedroom, and Fenris turns his head a fraction to listen to her retreat to his open closet, eyes cast a degree upward and fixed momentarily to the wrought iron balcony outside.

Setting down the mug, Hawke follows his gaze to the window. One year ago almost to the day, he'd pinned Fenris to that wrought iron balcony by the throat and threatened to kill him if he ever saw him again. Of course he couldn't keep that promise. They'd resumed texting within three weeks, were fucking within four.

Fenris is a better liar than him, but Hawke can only believe it when he's drunk and on top of the word for the next three rounds, because before Fenris there was _Fen_ , and Fen had wild black hair that curled in the summer and a bedside drawer full of Revlon concealer sticks. Hawke can't remember a day in which he didn't love the shit out of him, knowing from the moment his fourteen-year-old silhouette appeared behind the cherry of a cigarette that they were bound to fuck up the same things in precisely the same way.

Even Fen _ris_ , bone-thin and bleached to a crisp, consumed to the brim by a leather entourage—Hawke helped create this monster. He knows him like a scab on the interior wall of his cheek.

He manages a sigh. What he wants to say is, “I'm leaving for real, this time,” but Fenris suddenly covers the space between them with eyes shining in the same dark, defiant way that they'd shone when Hawke had snuck him out of his stepfather's house almost ten years ago, and Hawke's heart begins to hammer violently in his chest.

 

\--

 

_C'mon._

_I have nowhere, Hawke._

_You have my room. Isabela, she's just down the block. And—and we can think of something, Fen, please—_

_Be quiet. They will hear you._

_Fuck them, they can't do jack-shit._

_It means something different for me._

 

\--

 

“Ah shit, Fenris,” he breathes, defeated. Instinct born from every night he had to watch the light in his room go dark, he submits to the hands that Fenris presses to his chest, draws him in like a lure until he can feel every bone in him move. Without another word, he takes Fenris by the back of his head and covers his mouth with his own.

There's always been something raw and terrifying about the way Fenris kisses, how his lips make Hawke feel like he's needed to breathe, the direct correlation between the force of his tongue and how vulnerable he feels at the time. With one hand gracelessly buried in his boxers, Hawke once watched Fenris glide his tongue into another man's mouth; he beat off on a stranger's futon that night, strung out on whatever Varric had slipped across the table, hungry eyes fixed to Fenris' lips as they'd formed _I love you_ to him from across the room.

And now, Fenris still shakes at the contact of their meeting skin. He still trembles every time Hawke breaks the pace of his breathing—he used to do it on purpose, used to pin Fenris' hands above his head and hitch his breath in Fenris' ear until he fucked the air and sobbed out for his cock.

You can't know someone so long, Hawke thinks as the kiss gets meaner. Panting into Fenris' mouth, Hawke backs him up into the livingroom with both hands groping beneath his jeans, his own cock stiffening to a rod in the dip of Fenris' waist. He lets Fenris straddle him down on the couch, lets him jerk against him while he works to free them both from their jeans.

Then a heated moan escapes Fenris and shoots Hawke to a whole new mode of desperation; he tears down Fenris' jeans and spreads his legs wide over his lap unil his cock drags down Fenris' crease, thick and relentless, his need flaring through little bursts of precum that slick him up, tags his tip on Fenris' rim.

Bending back over the length of Hawke's dick, Fenris reaches for the bottle of Aveeno by his feet. He pushes its nozzle as Hawke roughly guides him back to his mouth, impatient, bands of lotion darting across the couch before he can get any where it's supposed to be. Hawke barely lubes up before he pushes two fingers past the tight ring of Fenris' entrance, and despite himself he grins because Fenris melts down when he crooks his knuckle just so, melts like clockwork, and Hawke's dreamed about it so many times it could get him sick.

Shivering off of Hawke's fingers, Fenris closes his hand around the base of Hawke's throat, palm pressed to his strong collarbone, and mounts his cock with such precision that Hawke's head automatically rolls back. Long seconds pass before Fenris moves again. Catching his gaze in a side-eyed glare, Hawke parts his lips and breathes, “ _tease._ ”

Fenris quirks an eyebrow, proving his point by bucking down in one fast, flooring sweep that makes them both groan out, taking half of Hawke's length before pulling off completely. He instantly connects their lips again, as if in apology, but Hawke responds by throwing Fenris down with a nasty growl, weighs him hard against the tattered Goodwill sofa and delves his tongue into Fenris' mouth as if he could lick every fucking ounce of his love and anger into him just like that. Fenris returns in that raw and terrifying way that he does: broken open and pouring out, the waning of his contol raging through the teeth he latches hard onto Hawke's bottom lip. Cock head catching sloppily along Fenris' opening, Hawke can feel every tight and familiar twitch, and he hooks his arm under Fenris' left leg, slams into him with a sharp, pointed jerk of his hips. Fenris freezes, eyes squeezed shut. Whatever sound he makes gets lost in the heat of their joined mouths.

It stops Hawke too, for a beat. He presses his forehead into Fenris' temple, whispering, “breathe, c'mon, breathe,” until Fenris shakes his head and finds his hair with heavy fingers, urging him deeper. Pulling himself up on his knees, Hawke fucks into him harder and harder, greedier, bruising Fenris' olive skin as he angles his hips toward him, opening him wide. “Fuck, Hawke,” Fenris whines. His nails carve brutal moons into Hawke's wrists. “ _God, you feel so fucking good in me, Hawke, I want to feel you fill me—_ ”

“Yeah?” Hawke hisses, completely gone, wrecking Fenris' prostate with every full stroke in. Beneath him, Fenris' cock swells and pulses purple along its crown, trailing stains of precum that act like glue between their skin. He presses his thumb against the very base of Fenris' shaft, right above his balls where the skin starts to pull hot and taut, driving into him hard enough to make his dick pop. “You're so fucking close, Fen,” Hawke pants, feeling him throb. “You're so close I can taste it. God, baby, come on, come on me.”

Fenris' cock strains forward like it's tethered to Hawke's voice. With a hitched cry, he lurches up and reaches for Hawke's unbottoned shirt, grinding his hips forward until he forces Hawke back on his palms.

“Hawke—oh God, _oh fuck_ —”

“That's it, baby, come on,” Hawke drags Fenris up on his lap, rooting him so deep that he's sure his dick could hold Fenris up on its own. Even as he's coming, Fenris rides him back into the cushions of the couch, balls tight against Hawke's groin, one hand clutched hard to his collar and the other clutched harder to his fingers. “ _Keep fucking me_ ,” he shudders. Hawke obliges in earnest, knuckles white where his his free fist keeps Fenris' thighs spread open. He thrashes up in dirty, viscious strokes, trapping Fenris' spent cock in the cum that slicks down his abdomen—he's destroyed Fenris this way before, got him to come on him over and over again, fucked him stupid and drooling and bloody in every corner of this apartment—but he can feel his own thighs tremble, now, and every nerve in his body starts to scream at once.

Sensing Hawke's peak, Fenris sinks his teeth into the skin just below his ear and tenses up hard around his cock, sinking their laced fingers into the crease of the couch. With stuttering, jerking hips, Hawke drives up into him, spreading Fenris' thighs even further apart with every thrust until he's coming as deep in him as he can.

 

\--

 

Ignoring the implications, Hawke idly drops his hand down Fenris' ass, drawing him flush against his thigh with two fingers sliding wetly past his fucked rim. He craves Fenris open and swollen, cum still gushing down his crack; against his neck, he can feel Fenris' mouth contort into a soundless moan.

The sky outside begins to pale and Hawke knows he should be leaving.

As Fenris slowly shifts his bodyweight into the contact, three words regurgitate at the back of Hawke's throat. He banishes them by coaxing Fenris into another kiss and gradually parts his fingers to a shivering scissor; Fenris' mouth follows him as he breaks away. With eyes glazing, Hawke slips from his opening, presses his lips to the dark, sweaty roots of his hairline and allows Fenris' hand to weave through the scruff on his jaw in a way that it shoudn't anymore.

Suddenly, Fenris huffs. It's a young, pained sound that Hawke hasn't heard in years.

“Why can't you just come back?”

“Fenris, stop.”

“No,” he pleads, suddenly hysterical. Angry. “Stay tonight. Just tonight, Hawke—”

“Don't do this. I can't, you know I can't.”

“ _Fill de puta, no sóc un ximple_ —”

“I never said you were—”

“—you _can_ stay, you are _choosing_ not to—”

“ _And I have the fucking right to do that, Fenris_.”

Something in those words make Hawke flinch, too, and he reaches for the pack of cigarettes crushed in the corner of the couch.

Procrastination, like lying and binge drinking, is hidden among Fenris' skill set. Always been, even in high school. Thoroughly dependent on his quick wit and quietly ambitious demeanor, his teachers used to curve their midterms against his grade and brag about his confidence over complimentary danishes in the faculty lounge. Hawke knew better, though. He knew that two weeks of “I am not fucking writing that essay” meant that the light in Fenris' bedroom would stay on til sunrise on the day it was due, and that if he stared through his own window long enough he'd eventually get invited out for a smoke.

He picked that up from him. All of it.

Breath tailored to silence, Hawke removes Fenris' arm from his neck and sifts through the clothes that lie like stains upon the livingroom floor. He pulls his jeans back on, buttons his shirt, checks his phone to keep himself standing because this time is harder than the last and he doesn't know why.

Hawke hears his name again, but he does not turn around to see how tight Fenris curls into himself when he leaves.

 

\--

 

 **Varric (05:18)** denials a river in egypt, bud.

**Author's Note:**

> EW


End file.
